PS 3525 

tir THE ARTIST 



Ji Drama Without Words 

By 
H. L. MENCKEN 




SAMUEL FRENCH 

Incorporated i8q8 
Thos. R. Edwards, Managing Director 

25 West 45th Street , New York City 

PRICE 50 CENTS 



1 



THE ARTIST 

A Drama Without Words 



By 
H. L. MENCKEN 




SAMUEL FRENCH 
Incorporated i8g8 

Thos. R. Edwards, Managing Director 
2$ West 45th Street . Islew York City 



P5 55Z5 



Copyright, 1916, 1920, by Ai^^red A. Knop^, Inc., 

In volume, "A Book of Burlesques," 

By H. h. Mencken 

ALI, RIGHTS RESERVED 

"The Artist" is fully protected under the copy- 
right laws of the United States of America, the 
British Empire, including the Dominion of Canada, 
and all countries subscribing to the Berne Conven- 
tion, and all rights reserved. 

In its present form this play is dedicated to the 
reading public only, and no performance, representa- 
tion, production, recitation, public reading or radio 
broadcasting may be given except by special arrange- 
ment with Samuei, French, 25 West 45th Street, New 
York, N. Y. 

It may be presented by amateurs upon payment of 
a royalty of Five Dollars for each performance, pay- 
able to Samuei, French one week before the date 
when the play is given. 

Professional rates quoted on application to Samuei* 
French. 



<^n 



This play is reprinted by permission o£ Alfred A. 
Knopf, Inc., and H. I^ Mencken, from "A Book o£ 
Burlesques," published by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. 



The Artist 



CHARACTERS 

A Great Pianist 

A Janitor 

Six Music Critics 

A Married Woman 

A Virgin 

Sixteen Hundred and Forty-three Other Women 

Six Other Men 

Place. — A city of the United States. 
Time. — A December afternoon. 



THE ARTIST 

[During the action of the play not a word is uttered 
aloud. All of the speeches of the characters are sup- 
posed to be unspoken meditations only.] 

A large, gloomy hall, with many rows of uncushioned, 
uncomfortable seats, designed, it would seem, by some- 
one misinformed as to the average width of the nor- 
mal human pelvis, A number of busts of celebrated 
composers, once white, but now a dirty gray, stand in 
niches along the walls. At one end of the hall there 
is a bare, uncarpeted stage, with nothing on it save a 
grand piano and a chair. It is raining outside, and, 
as hundreds of people come crowding in, the air is 
laden with the mingled scents of umbrellas, raincoats, 
goloshes, cosmetics, perfumery and wet hair. 

At eight minutes past four. The Janitor, after 
smoothing his hair with his hands and putting on a 
pair of detachable cuffs, emerges from the wings and 
crosses the stage, his shoes squeaking hideously at each 
step. Arriving at the piano, he opens it with solemn 
slowness. The job seems so absurdly trivial, even to 
so mean an understanding, that he can't refrain from 

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The Artist 

glorifying it with a hit of hocus-pocus. This takes the 
form of a careful adjustment of a mysterious some- 
thing within the instrument. He reaches in, pauses a 
moment as if in doubt, reaches in again, and then per- 
mits a faint smile of conscious sapience and efficiency 
to illuminate his face. All of this accomplished, he 
tiptoes hack to the wings, his shoes again squeaking, 

THE JANITOR. Now all of them people think I'm the 
professor's tuner. {The thought gives him such de- 
light that, for the moment, his brain is numbed. Then 
he proceeds.] I guess them tuners make pretty good 
money. I wish I could get the hang of the trick. It 
looks easy. [By this time he has disappeared in the 
wings and the stage is again a desert. Two or three 
women, far hack in the hall, start a half-hearted hand- 
clapping. It dies out at once. The noise of rustling 
programs and shuffling feet succeeds it.] 

FOUR HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN. Oh, I do Certainly 
hope he plays that lovely Valse Poupee as an encore! 
They say he does it better than Bloomfield-Zeisler. 

ONE OF THE CRITICS. I hope the animal doesn't pull 
any encore numbers that I don't recognize. All of 
these people will buy the paper to-morrow morning 
just to find out what they have heard. It's infernally 
embarrassing to have to ask the manager. The public 

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The Artist 

expects a music critic to be a sort of walking the- 
matic catalogue. The public is an ass. 

THE SIX OTHER MEN. Oh, Lord ! What a way to 
spend an afternoon! 

A HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN. I wonder if he's as hand- 
some as Paderewski. 

ANOTHER HUNDRED OF THE WOMEN. I WOnder if he's 

as gentlemanly as Josef Hofmann. 

STILL ANOTHER HUNDRED WOMEN. I WOndcr if hc'S 88 

fascinating as De Pachmann. 

YET OTHER HUNDREDS. I wonder if he has dark eyes. 
You never can tell by those awful photographs in the 
newspapers. 

HALF A DOZEN WOMEN. I wondcr if he can really play 
the piano. 

THE CRITIC AFORESAID. What a hell of a wait ! These 
rotten piano-thumping immigrants deserve a hard call- 
down. But what's the use ? The piano manufacturers 
bring them over here to wallop their pianos — and the 
piano manufacturers are not afraid to advertise. If 
you knock them too hard you have a nasty business- 
office row on your hands. 

[3 ] 



The Artist 

ONE OF THE MEN. If they allowed smoking, it 
wouldn't be so bad. 

ANOTHER MAN. I wonder if that woman across the 
aisle 

[the great pianist bounces upon the stage so sud- 
denly that he is bowing in the center before anyone 
thinks to applaud. He makes three stiff bows. At 
the second the applause begins, swelling at once to a 
roar. He steps up to the piano, bows three times 
more, and then sits down. He hvmches his shoulders, 
reaches for the pedals with his feet, spreads out his 
hands and waits for the clapper-clawing to cease. He 
is an undersized, paunchy East German, with hair the 
color of wet hay, and an extremely pallid complexion. 
Talcum powder hides the fact that his nose is shiny 
and somewhat pink. His eyebrows are carefully pen- 
ciled and there are artificial shadows under his eyes. 
His face is absolutely expressionless.] 

the virgin. Oh ! 

THE married women. Oh ! 

the other women. Oh! How dreadfully hand- 
some ! 

THE virgin. Oh, such eyes, such depth! How he 
must have suffered! I'd like to hear him play the 
Prelude in D flat major. It would drive you crazy! 
[ 4] 



The Artist 

A HUNDRED OTHER WOMEN. I Certainly do hope he 
plays some Schumann. 

OTHER WOMEN. What bcautiful hands! I could kiss 
them! 

[the great pianist, throwing hack his head, strikes 
the massive opening chords of a Beethoven sonata. 
There is a sudden hush and each note is heard clearly. 
The tempo of the first movement, which begins after 
a grand pause, is allegro con brio, and the first sub- 
ject is given out in a sparkling cascade of sound. But, 
despite the buoyancy of the music, there is an unmis- 
takable undercurrent of melancholy in the playing. 
The audience doesn't fail to notice it.\ 

the virgin. Oh, perfect ! I could love him ! Pade- 
rewski played it like a fox trot. What poetry he puts 
into it ! I can see a soldier lover marching off to war. 

ONE OF the critics. The ass is dragging it. Doesn't 
con brio mean — well, what the devil does it mean? I 
forget. I must look it up before I write the notice. 
Somehow, brio suggests cheese. Anyhow, Pachmann 
plays it a damn sight faster. It's safe to say that, at 
all events. 

the married woman. Oh, I could Hsten to that 
sonata all day ! The poetry he puts into it — even into 

[ s ] 



The Artist 

the allegro! Just think what the andante will be! I 
like music to be sad. 

ANOTHER WOMAN. What a sob he gets into it ! 

MANY OTHER WOMEN. How cxquisite ! 

THE GREAT PIANIST. {Gathering himself together for 
the difficult development section."] That American 
near-beer will be the death of me ! I wonder what they 
put in it to give it its gassy taste. And the so-called 
real beer they sell over here — du heiliger Herr Jesu! 
Even Bremen would be ashamed of it. In Miinchen 
the police would take a hand. {Aiming for the first 
and second Cs above the staff, he accidentally strikes 
the C sharps instead and has to transpose three meas- 
ures to get hack into the key. The effect is harrowing, 
and he gives his audience a swift glance of apprehen- 
sion.'] 

TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY WOMEN. What ncw beautics 
he gets out of it ! 

A MAN. He can tickle the ivories, all right, all right! 

A CRITIC. Well, at any rate, he doesn't try to imitate 
Paderewski. 

THE GREAT PIANIST. {Relieved by the non-appearance 

of the hisses he expected.] Well, it's lucky for me that 

I'm not in Leipzig to-day! But in Leipzig an artist 

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The Artist 

runs no risks : the beer is pure. The authorities see to 
that. The worse enemy of technic is biliousness, and 
bihousness is sure to follow bad beer. [He gets to 
the coda at last and takes it at a somewhat livelier 
pace.] 

THE VIRGIN. How I envy the woman he loves ! How 
it would thrill me to feel his arms about me — to be 
drawn closer, closer, closer! I would give up the 
whole world! What are conventions, prejudices, legal 
forms, morality, after all? Vanities! Love is be- 
yond and above them all — and art is love ! I think I 
must be a pagan. 

THE GREAT PIANIST. And the herring! Good God, 
what Jierring ! These barbarous Americans 

THE VIRGIN. Really, I am quite indecent! I should 
blush, I suppose. But love is never ashamed. — How 
people misunderstand me ! 

THE MARRIED WOMAN. I wondcr if he's faithful. The 
chances are against it. I never heard of a man who 
was. [An agreeable melancholy overcomes her and 
she gives herself up to the mood without thought.] 

THE GREAT PIANIST. I wondcr whatever became of 
that girl in Dresden. Every time I think of her, she 
suggests pleasant thoughts — good beer, a fine band, 

[7] 



The Artist 

Gemutlichkeit I must have been in love with her — 
not much, of course, but just enough to make things 
pleasant. And not a single letter from her! I sup- 
pose she thinks I'm starving to death over here — or 
tuning pianos. Well, when I get back with the money 
there'll be a shock for her. A shock — ^but not a 
Pfennig ! 

THE MARRIED WOMAN. {Her emotionol coma ended.] 
Still, you can hardly blame him. There must be a 
good deal of temptation for a great artist. All of 
these frumps here would 

THE VIRGIN. Ah, how dolorous, how exquisite is love ! 
How small the world would seem if 

THE MARRIED WOMAN. Of course, you could hardly 
call such old scarecrows temptations. But still 

[the great pianist comes to the last measure of the 
coda — a passage of almost Haydnesque clarity and 
spirit. As he strikes the broad chord of the tonic 
there comes a roar of applause. He arises, moves a 
step or two down the stage, and makes a series of low 
bows, his hands to his heart.] 

THE GREAT PIANIST. [Bowing.] I wondcr why the 
American women always wear raincoats to piano re- 
citals. Even when the sun is shining brightly, one 
[8 ] 



The Artist 

sees hundreds of them. What a disagreeable smell 
they give to the hall. [More applause and more hows.^ 
An American audience always smells of rubber and 
lilies-of -the- valley. How different in London ! There 
an audience always smells of soap. In Paris it re- 
minds you of sachet bags — and lingerie. [The ap- 
plause ceases and he returns to the piano. ^ And now 
comes that verfluchte adagio. [As he begins to play, 
a deathlike silence falls upon the hall.} 

ONE OF THE CRITICS. What rottcn pedaling! 

ANOTHER CRITIC. A touch like a xylophone player, but 
he knows how to use his feet. That suggests a good 
line for the notice — " he plays better with his feet than 
with his hands," or something like that. I'll have to 
think it over and polish it up. 

ONE OF THE OTHER MEN. Now comcs somc more of 
that awful classical stuff. 

THE VIRGIN. Suppose he can't speak English? But 
that wouldn't matter. Nothing matters. Love is be- 
yond and above 

SIX HUNDRED WOMEN. Oh, how bcautiful ! 

THE MARRIED WOMAN. Perfect! 

[9] 



The Artist 

THE DEAN OF THE CRITICS. [Sinking quickly into the 
slumber which always overtakes him during the 
adagio.] C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h! 

THE YOUNGEST CRITIC. There is that old fraud asleep 
again. And to-morrow hell print half a column of 
vapid reminiscence and call it criticism. It's a won- 
der his paper stands for him. Because he once heard 
Liszt, he . . . 

THE GREAT PIANIST. That plump girl over there on 
the left is not so bad. As for the rest, I beg to be 
excused. The American women have no more shape 
than so many matches. They are too tall and too thin. 
I like a nice rubbery armful — like that Dresden girl. 
Or that harpist in Moscow — the girl with the Pilsner 
hair. Let me see, what was her name ? Oh, Fritzi, to 
be sure — but her last name? Schmidt? Kraus? 
Meyer ? I'll have to try to think of it, and send her a 
post-card. 

THE MARRIED WOMAN. What dcHcious flutelike tones ! 

ONE OF THE WOMEN. If Bccthoven could only be here 
to hear it! He would cry for very joy! Maybe he 
does hear it. Who knows? I believe he does. I am 
sure he does. 

[ 10 ] 



The Artist 

[the great pianist reaches the end of the adagio, 
and there is another burst of applause, which awakens 
the dean of the critics.] 

THE DEAN OF THE CRITICS. Oh, piffle ! Compared to 
Gottschalk, the man is an amateur. Let him go back 
to the conservatory for a couple of years. 

ONE OF THE MEN. [Looking at his program,] Next 
comes the shirt-so. I hope it has some tune in it. 

THE VIRGIN. The adagio is love's agony, but the 
scherzo is love triumphant. What beautiful eyes he 
has ! And how pale he is ! 

THE GREAT PIANIST. [Resuming his grir/i toil.] Well, 
there's half of it over. But this scherzo is ticklish 
business. That horrible evening in Prague — will I 
ever forget it? Those hisses — and the papers next 
day! 

ONE OF THE MEN. Go it, prof essot ! That's the best 
you've done yet ! 

ONE OF THE CRITICS. ToO f ast ! 
ANOTHER CRITIC. ToO sloW ! 

A YOUNG GIRL. My, but ain't the professor just full of 
talent ! 

[ II 1 



The Artist 

THE GREAT PIANIST. Well, SO far no accident. [He 
negotiates a difficult passage, and plays it triumphantly, 
but at some expenditure of cold perspiration.'] What 
a way for a man to make a living ! 

THE VIRGIN. What passion he puts into it ! His soul 
is in his finger-tips. 

A CRITIC. A human pianola ! 

THE GREAT PIANIST. This sckerzo always fetches the 
women. I can hear them draw long breaths. That 
plump girl is getting pale. Well, why shouldn't she? 
I suppose I'm about the best pianist she has ever heard 
— or ever will hear. What people can see in that Hof- 
mann fellow I never could imagine. In Chopin, 
Schumann, Grieg, you might fairly say he's pretty 
good. But it takes an artist to play Beethoven. [He 
rattles on to the end of the sherzo and there is 
more applause. Then he dashes into the finale.] 

THE DEAN OF THE CRITICS. ToO loud ! Too loud ! It 

sounds like an ash-cart going down an alley. But what 
can you expect? Piano-playing is a lost art. Pade- 
rewski ruined it. 

THE GREAT PIANIST. I OUght tO clcar 200,000 gold- 

marks by this tournee. If it weren't for those thieving 
agents and hotel-keepers, I'd make 300,000. Just think 

[ 12 ] 



The Artist 

of it — twenty-four marks a day for a room! That's 
the way these Americans treat a visiting artist! The 
country is worse than Bulgaria. I was treated better 
at Bucharest. Well, it won't last forever. As soon 
as I get enough of their money they'll see me no more. 
Vienna is the place to settle down. A nice studio at 
fifty marks a month — and the life of a gentleman. 
What was the name of that little red-cheeked girl at 
the cafe in the Franz josefstrasse — that girl with the 
gold tooth and the green stockings? I'll have to look 
her up. 

THE VIRGIN. What an artist! What a master! 
What a 

THE MARRIED WOMAN. Has he really suffered, or is it 
just intuition? 

THE GREAT PIANIST. . No, marriage is a waste of 
money. Let the other fellow marry her. [He ap- 
proaches the closing measures of the finale.] And 
now for a breathing spell and a swallow of beer. 
American beer! Bah! But it's better than nothing. 
The Americans drink water. Cattle ! Animals ! Ach, 
Munchen, wie hist du so schon! [As he concludes 
there is a whirlwind of applause and he is forced to 
how again and again. Finally, he is permitted to re- 
tire, and the audience prepares to spend the short in- 

[ 13 ] 



The Artist 

termission in whispering, grunting, wriggling, scraping 
its feet, rustling its programs and gaping at hats, the 
SIX MUSIC CRITICS and six other men, their lips 
parched and their eyes staring, gallop for the door. 
As THE GREAT PIANIST comes from the stage, the 
JANITOR meets him with a large seidel of needle-heer. 
He seizes it eagerly and downs it at a gulp.] 

THE JANITOR. My, but them professors can put the 
stuff away! 

CURTAIN 



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